London Burns but Twice
by ShadowDragon8685
Summary: What happens when the World's Survivors, six months after the Bull dies, decide to get some of their own back?


Reign of Fire: London Burns but Twice. 

(Authors note: Sorry. I coulden't resist plugging in the Big E. I'm a Trekkie. What can I say? Oh, and for those of you, about one-hundred percent of you, I'm betting, don't know what in the blue blazes a Napalm Screamer is. Well, it's an idea I concocted while listening to Iron Maiden's 2 Minutes to Midnight for three hours on end. It's basically a big napalm bomb, with a smaller bomb inside, to get both flame and explosive goodness, and to spread the Napalm over a wider area. As for those who don't know what Willie Peter is, go talk to a Vet. Everyone should talk to more Vets. They have loads of great stories, even if they won't tell you half of 'em.)   
  


"Those idiot Americans. They'll either save the world, or get it torched twice."   
"There's a difference at this point?"   
Quinn looked over at Alex, and laughed softly. "Okay. I'm sorry… I suppose you're going to be going on this dragon hunt, then?"   
Alex shook her blonde-haired, pretty head at him. "Nope… My chopper doesn't have weapons. And without any weapons big enough for people in the back to do some damage, I'd just be a moving target… Besides, I… We've got other things to worry about."   
Quinn laughed.   
2021 AD. The bull had been dead for six months. With him gone, the dragon population was receding, but there were still plenty left. And their contact with the French had been only the beginning.   
After that, the survivors had started to call each other. The world no longer felt… no longer felt EMPTY, anymore. Sure, there were only a few million humans left, when once the blue globe had boasted a populace of over six billion, but thanks to the radio communications now up again, the world felt ALIVE. There were people to talk to. People had started to rediscover their lost arts, and some enterprising former kid-hacker had managed to tap into the control systems for as many satellites as he could, and a few remaining NASA personnel had gotten them working again. So the world had intercontinental transmission again.   
And now some people had come up with another fine, grand human idea.   
With the discovery that by and large, about 10% of the survivors were military, most of them either Navy or Air Force based on the big carriers, the rest people who had, like Van Zan, managed to discover Magic Hour, they had come up with an idea.   
They wanted to take back their own, starting with London.   
Quinn sighed, looking at Alex. "Do you think it'll work?"   
Alex shrugged, and smiled. "Frankly? Yes. I've been listening to their reports. They've assembled about sixty-thousand attack aircraft in the English Channel, from F-22 Raptors and Euro-Tigers to Apaches and F-14 Tomcats. A nice medley… And they've got the H.M.S. Britania and U.S.S. Sea Hawk that they plan to use to give London a good blasting with 20-inch guns and Tomahawk cruise missiles before sending in the aircraft… They very well could get every last one of them, before the ground invasion… They really do mean to rebuild London…"   


Three days later…   
The deck of the U.S.S. Enterprise was alight with activity in the just-pre-dawn Magic Hour.   
Enterprise was the lead element in the Air Attack. The first in the delta-V formation of aircraft carriers, everyone who had them to spare and could get them to London in time.   
Three U.S. Carriers had made, two English, one Spanish, and two Canadian Carriers had made it to the attack.   
Ahead of them, nearer the London side of the channel, floated three Warships, and below the surface lurked one Sea Wolf class submarine. The Sea Hawk was the only remaining Sea Wolf class. Although contact had been made with several Los Angeles-classes, they had only nukes, and thus would be useless in the conflict to come. 

"Ready, Jackie?"   
The pilot grinned, clicked his tounge, and gave the ages-old thumbs-up.   
His CAG sighed. Six feet, three inches of long, lean, and mean, capped with raven-black hair and a pretty face that could glare so hard as to melt the side armor off a Battleship.   
"You owe me. Remember? You've still got two hundred and fifty push-ups left to go."   
Jackie grinned softly. "Yes, I know. And I still say you owe me another shot at that contest."   
"Not until I get paid, Jack-ass. Now get yourself into that big green monster on the deck. And don't get killed, or I swear, I'll hunt up your Damned Soul and make IT give me my pushups!"   
Jackie snorted, and laughed. "okay. But next time, it's you who owes me seven hundred… I've been, ahh, working out my tounge… And technique." He winked, and waggled his eyebrows, an action which earned him a rap on the head from the clipboard of CAG Armstrong. "Yeah yeah… Just make sure you're goddamned back here for it."   
"Of course I'll be jack, Jamie… Of course I'll be back. Hey, it's me. Eh girl? Eh?"   
This earned him a much harder rap on the head with her clipboard. "Get yer helmet on. You chopper boys are going straight after the fly-boys."   
"As opposed to, right ahead of them, or an hour after, or fifteen minutes after they get back?"   
Another rap with the clipboard.   
"I don't see what's so hard for you to grasp about this equation. You have helmet, and thus, I can't hit you with my clipboard."   
She emphasized the point with another rap.   
"Maybe I just love the look in your eyes when you're pretending to be horrible to me?"   
At this, Armstrong rolled her eyes, and stretched up into the morning air. "Just come back."   
Jackie laughed, and pulled on his helmet. "All right. I'll be back."   
She watched him walking to his chopper, and she'd suffer the Torments of the Damned before she'd publicly let slip how much she wanted to be able to cancel his flight, and leave him safe and warm in her quarters… 

Twenty seconds after Jackie got into the helicopter. "So, Viking. How's your wench?" "Oh shut up. You're blonder'n I am. Anyway, she's not my wench… CAG Armstrong could rip your spine out and beat you with it without raising a sweat."   
The ludicrosity of this statement only made it even more funny, as Jackie's co-pilot/gunner was a gorilla in uniform, weighing in at about six feet two, and three hundred pounds of solid muscle.   
His friend snorted. "Good point. Ahh well. Anyway, life is good. We're gonna get somma our own back. I owe the bastards plenty."   
Jackie laughed at Daniel's statement. "True. We all do… Ahh well. Saddle up, Mr. I-have-such-a-cool-callsign-Peter.   
"Hey. It stands for Willie Peter. I love the stuff!"   
"I know, it burns through nests really good… but you made it your callsign?!"   
Daniel shrugged, and climbed into the helicopter. "Oh well. Get ready… oh, I think the TAC is calling. Maybe it's your girlfriend."   
Telling his friend to shut up, he switched on his headset. "Viking. What's up, TAC?"   
The sigh and eyeroll were audible. "Now that the last member of this little party has joined us, I can begin. Folks, get ready. We are here to smash these out of London. The Task Force channel is 346 MHz. Switch to that, and then we'll begin the briefing."   
A quick turn of the dial… "Okay. Is everyone in? Yes, Enterprise, that's the last one. Alright." The speaker had a heavy British accent. "As most of you already know, I'm Admiral Fitzgeraldine, late of what's left of Her Majesty's Royal Navy." A loud sigh echoed. "It's too late to save the Queen. Or the President, of whichever country you care to name. Or the premier. Or the billions dead… Far, far too many dead… But we are here to get our own back. For twelve horrible, horrible years, these beasts, these dragons, like the monsters of myth, have been living on credit from the Bank of Humanity. They've been horrible customers, as a matter of fact, so it's time to cash out the account, and start repossessing what's ours. Starting with London… Yes, I am aware that was a horrible speech. I've always been better with the direct sort of leadership, so let me just finish with this. In two minutes fifty seconds, the H.M.S. Britania and the U.S.S. Sea Hawk are going to bombard London. Two salvos, then the fighter aircraft launch, and shoot down those that fled. As soon as the fighters clear the deck, the helicopter attack squadron, our real fighting strength here, is going to launch, and will proceed about the business of cleaning up London. Well, one minute ten seconds now. All hands, BATTLESTATIONS!" 

A long minute later…   
Blasts like the very furnaces of hell echoed, as the squadron commanders started issuing orders. Viking watched out the cockpit of his Apache attack helicopter as the screaming F-22s blasted from the flight deck of the Enterprise. Older aircraft, F-14 Tomcats, and Harriers, were launching from the other Carriers, as he watched. Then.   
"Okay ladies, here we go. Pitchfork flight, go. Hellcat flight, go. Perdition flight, go!"   
Viking hit the rotors as soon as he heard CAG Armstrong saying Hellcat, and the Channel was alive with roaring. Not dragons though, this was the wonderful steel roar of literally thousands upon thousands of rotors fighting to lift their aircraft into the sky. 

Then the enormous cloud of flying steel dragons swarmed over the ruins of London, to spit fire back at fire-breathing beasts of myth. 

"Okay, hold it tight to my six! Good. Coming up on that big bastard chasing that French Osprey. Right. Hit 'em!" 

An Osprey, it's rotors in plane-mode, tore down a relatively narrow 'road' between ruined towers, as a young female chased it, trying to snap it out of the air physically. The Osprey's lead was holding steady, but just barely, when it jerked, as two 6mm. cannons started roaring at it's back and wings, shredding and tearing. 

"Oh that bastard's down! WOAH!!!!"   
Hitting the stick on a hard bank to port, Viking narrowly avoided feeding the flame from a huge female sitting in a side street. Then her flame-spitting head exploded in a firestorm, as two Euro-tigers, black Apache knock-offs, with twice the cannon and half the missiles, roared past the side street, cannons firing at some target out of sight. 

"I owe you a drink for that one!"   
"Don't mention it. Just get me the WOAA!!!!"   
A squeal issued in his headset, as another British voice screamed. "BLOODY BASTARD! GET THAT NEST!"   
Viking tore his Apache through an intersection, and onto the street the Euro-tigers were in, spotting a nesting female spitting flame into the sky. She was pointed the other way.   
"She's dog meat!"   
Hellfires poured from the Apache's rocket racks, until the Nest and the female sitting on it was reduced to charnel, and the Apache again took off, raising up towards the general melee in the skies over London.   
It was like another Blitz, Jackie thought, as he tracked onto a young one chasing after two other Apaches. Before he could fire, though, an F-22 roared in, launched in a Sidewinder, effectively blowing the dragon out of the sky with half it's torso and the left wing gone.   
"Those beasts thought they were the hottest thing in the sky. They were goddamned WRONG! YEAH!"   
"Maniac?"   
"Hahah! Nobody messed with the Maniac! WOOOOO! FOX-4!"   
The F-22 blew another dragon out the sky, but when he slowed to bank, a large, old female with amazing speed started chasing him. "Woah! Bogie on my six!"   
Then the dragon blew apart, an F-14 Tomcat blasting high over it's rapidly falling corpse. "Next time, Maniac, look before you bank."   
Then someone started playing some loud rock music on the command channel, set to fade when someone spoke. And there was much rejoicing on the comms.   
"I love this song."   
"What's not to love? It's loud. It's rock! Hahah!"   
Viking guided his Apache in towards another Osprey, this one was running from one dragon, while it's door gunners, with .50 caliber Longbarrel, each shot at dragons to it's dies. A quick down-and-up under the osprey, fire off a Sidewinder, and up to dodge the dragon's ballistic corpse. "That looks like a kill for Peter. Thank you, and goodnight."   
Rolling his eyeballs at his copilot, Jackie smiled, banking hard down to the right, coming in behind another female chasing after a Euro-tiger, fire spitting from it's cannon.   
The dragon went down, and Viking laughed. "I don't know why it wasn't this easy the first time."   
"Maybe because these are half-starved, very young or elderly dragons who don't number a half of what was over London the first time."   
"Oh… Well, we could've still taken twice this number with this many choppers and planes."   
"Maybe. But then, back then, we didn't get the chance to rally a large international task force. Now shut up, you limey Yank, and shoot something!" 

"Roger THAT. WOAH! Dirty mother! Someone help me out here, got one on my six!"   
Viking put the Apache into a hard dive, down for the streets of London, idly noting the excellent view he got of the ruined Tower, as he slammed and slid his helicopter through intersections, trying to loose an older female who was trying her best to torch him down. Until a Euro-Tiger, that is, slipped on HER tail, and spat fire back.   
"Whew. I owe you for that one."   
"Don't mention it."   
"Hey, take a look. I see a nesting female. Money shot. Bet you I can pop one of those lovely Willie Peter tanks they strapped on the belly right in."   
Viking laughed at Peter. "You sure it wouldn't be easier and more effective to pop her with the Napalm Screamer?"   
"of course it would. That's why they only gave us one Screamer, an' two Peters. Cause it's more fun to do it the hard way. Bring me in hot. As in on fire."   
Grumbling "that's what I'm afraid of." Viking nevertheless hit the acceleration, the rotor whining as the Apache screamed towards the Nesting female, who was concentrating on roasting a Euro-Tiger pestering her. Consequently, she only saw too late as the green Apache slid over her, the canister on the bottom falling, pinging once loudly off the ground, bouncing into the nest, between her wings, then agony.   
"Yeah, that's gonna be a nice mess to clean up!" 

"Okay people. That's enough. Fighters return to carriers, we're starting the land invasion now. Estimates put the dragons killed in the air battle at about eighty-five percent. Great job. Choppers, you're gonna stay in the air for a while longer, but it doesn't look like there's much left for the infantry and armor to mop up. Great work." 

"No more for the Maniac? You cold-hearted sadist.." the whine was plain, even over the comm, and Viking laughed……   


******** 

"Two hundred forty-six, two-hundred forty-seven, two hundred….. forty… eight, two hundred forty….. nine, two hundred.. FIFTY!" 

Jackie fell to the deck, nearly exhausted, as Jamie leaned down, taking his hand in hers. It was amazingly gentle. "Okay. Now we're even. How about that rematch… After a shower?"   
Jackie looked up at her, and shook his head. "I don't think so. I won't survive another seven-hundred pushups.."   
He was rewarded with a smile, and she grinned. "Good. You know who's still the master of oral sex, then… In that case…"   
She smiled, stripping her shirt off, and Jamie felt his mouth watering at her chest, devoid of a bra. He let his eyes travel over her smooth skin, and smiled, as she stepped out of her pants and panties, and started to undo his clothes. He obligingly got up, and laid backwards on her bunk.   
"Mmmmhmmm… You're going to enjoy this, hero…"   
Jackie laughed softly. "I'm no hero…"   
"Good… Then you'll enjoy this more, lover."   
She grinned at him, then grabbed his head in her hands, pulling his lips to hers……   
"God, she tastes like… strawberries…"   
Jackie gasped softly as she straddled his now-bare hips……… 

The End.   
(Sorry about the way I had to bring it to a kinda-cheesy fade-to-black ending, but they won't let NC-17 up anymore. Maybe if enough people ask, I'll provide a more adult version for those who contact me privatly.)   
Reign of Fire: London Burns but Twice. 

(Authors note: Sorry. I coulden't resist plugging in the Big E. I'm a Trekkie. What can I say? Oh, and for those of you, about one-hundred percent of you, I'm betting, don't know what in the blue blazes a Napalm Screamer is. Well, it's an idea I concocted while listening to Iron Maiden's 2 Minutes to Midnight for three hours on end. It's basically a big napalm bomb, with a smaller bomb inside, to get both flame and explosive goodness, and to spread the Napalm over a wider area. As for those who don't know what Willie Peter is, go talk to a Vet. Everyone should talk to more Vets. They have loads of great stories, even if they won't tell you half of 'em.)   
  


"Those idiot Americans. They'll either save the world, or get it torched twice."   
"There's a difference at this point?"   
Quinn looked over at Alex, and laughed softly. "Okay. I'm sorry… I suppose you're going to be going on this dragon hunt, then?"   
Alex shook her blonde-haired, pretty head at him. "Nope… My chopper doesn't have weapons. And without any weapons big enough for people in the back to do some damage, I'd just be a moving target… Besides, I… We've got other things to worry about."   
Quinn laughed.   
2021 AD. The bull had been dead for six months. With him gone, the dragon population was receding, but there were still plenty left. And their contact with the French had been only the beginning.   
After that, the survivors had started to call each other. The world no longer felt… no longer felt EMPTY, anymore. Sure, there were only a few million humans left, when once the blue globe had boasted a populace of over six billion, but thanks to the radio communications now up again, the world felt ALIVE. There were people to talk to. People had started to rediscover their lost arts, and some enterprising former kid-hacker had managed to tap into the control systems for as many satellites as he could, and a few remaining NASA personnel had gotten them working again. So the world had intercontinental transmission again.   
And now some people had come up with another fine, grand human idea.   
With the discovery that by and large, about 10% of the survivors were military, most of them either Navy or Air Force based on the big carriers, the rest people who had, like Van Zan, managed to discover Magic Hour, they had come up with an idea.   
They wanted to take back their own, starting with London.   
Quinn sighed, looking at Alex. "Do you think it'll work?"   
Alex shrugged, and smiled. "Frankly? Yes. I've been listening to their reports. They've assembled about sixty-thousand attack aircraft in the English Channel, from F-22 Raptors and Euro-Tigers to Apaches and F-14 Tomcats. A nice medley… And they've got the H.M.S. Britania and U.S.S. Sea Hawk that they plan to use to give London a good blasting with 20-inch guns and Tomahawk cruise missiles before sending in the aircraft… They very well could get every last one of them, before the ground invasion… They really do mean to rebuild London…"   


Three days later…   
The deck of the U.S.S. Enterprise was alight with activity in the just-pre-dawn Magic Hour.   
Enterprise was the lead element in the Air Attack. The first in the delta-V formation of aircraft carriers, everyone who had them to spare and could get them to London in time.   
Three U.S. Carriers had made, two English, one Spanish, and two Canadian Carriers had made it to the attack.   
Ahead of them, nearer the London side of the channel, floated three Warships, and below the surface lurked one Sea Wolf class submarine. The Sea Hawk was the only remaining Sea Wolf class. Although contact had been made with several Los Angeles-classes, they had only nukes, and thus would be useless in the conflict to come. 

"Ready, Jackie?"   
The pilot grinned, clicked his tounge, and gave the ages-old thumbs-up.   
His CAG sighed. Six feet, three inches of long, lean, and mean, capped with raven-black hair and a pretty face that could glare so hard as to melt the side armor off a Battleship.   
"You owe me. Remember? You've still got two hundred and fifty push-ups left to go."   
Jackie grinned softly. "Yes, I know. And I still say you owe me another shot at that contest."   
"Not until I get paid, Jack-ass. Now get yourself into that big green monster on the deck. And don't get killed, or I swear, I'll hunt up your Damned Soul and make IT give me my pushups!"   
Jackie snorted, and laughed. "okay. But next time, it's you who owes me seven hundred… I've been, ahh, working out my tounge… And technique." He winked, and waggled his eyebrows, an action which earned him a rap on the head from the clipboard of CAG Armstrong. "Yeah yeah… Just make sure you're goddamned back here for it."   
"Of course I'll be jack, Jamie… Of course I'll be back. Hey, it's me. Eh girl? Eh?"   
This earned him a much harder rap on the head with her clipboard. "Get yer helmet on. You chopper boys are going straight after the fly-boys."   
"As opposed to, right ahead of them, or an hour after, or fifteen minutes after they get back?"   
Another rap with the clipboard.   
"I don't see what's so hard for you to grasp about this equation. You have helmet, and thus, I can't hit you with my clipboard."   
She emphasized the point with another rap.   
"Maybe I just love the look in your eyes when you're pretending to be horrible to me?"   
At this, Armstrong rolled her eyes, and stretched up into the morning air. "Just come back."   
Jackie laughed, and pulled on his helmet. "All right. I'll be back."   
She watched him walking to his chopper, and she'd suffer the Torments of the Damned before she'd publicly let slip how much she wanted to be able to cancel his flight, and leave him safe and warm in her quarters… 

Twenty seconds after Jackie got into the helicopter. "So, Viking. How's your wench?" "Oh shut up. You're blonder'n I am. Anyway, she's not my wench… CAG Armstrong could rip your spine out and beat you with it without raising a sweat."   
The ludicrosity of this statement only made it even more funny, as Jackie's co-pilot/gunner was a gorilla in uniform, weighing in at about six feet two, and three hundred pounds of solid muscle.   
His friend snorted. "Good point. Ahh well. Anyway, life is good. We're gonna get somma our own back. I owe the bastards plenty."   
Jackie laughed at Daniel's statement. "True. We all do… Ahh well. Saddle up, Mr. I-have-such-a-cool-callsign-Peter.   
"Hey. It stands for Willie Peter. I love the stuff!"   
"I know, it burns through nests really good… but you made it your callsign?!"   
Daniel shrugged, and climbed into the helicopter. "Oh well. Get ready… oh, I think the TAC is calling. Maybe it's your girlfriend."   
Telling his friend to shut up, he switched on his headset. "Viking. What's up, TAC?"   
The sigh and eyeroll were audible. "Now that the last member of this little party has joined us, I can begin. Folks, get ready. We are here to smash these out of London. The Task Force channel is 346 MHz. Switch to that, and then we'll begin the briefing."   
A quick turn of the dial… "Okay. Is everyone in? Yes, Enterprise, that's the last one. Alright." The speaker had a heavy British accent. "As most of you already know, I'm Admiral Fitzgeraldine, late of what's left of Her Majesty's Royal Navy." A loud sigh echoed. "It's too late to save the Queen. Or the President, of whichever country you care to name. Or the premier. Or the billions dead… Far, far too many dead… But we are here to get our own back. For twelve horrible, horrible years, these beasts, these dragons, like the monsters of myth, have been living on credit from the Bank of Humanity. They've been horrible customers, as a matter of fact, so it's time to cash out the account, and start repossessing what's ours. Starting with London… Yes, I am aware that was a horrible speech. I've always been better with the direct sort of leadership, so let me just finish with this. In two minutes fifty seconds, the H.M.S. Britania and the U.S.S. Sea Hawk are going to bombard London. Two salvos, then the fighter aircraft launch, and shoot down those that fled. As soon as the fighters clear the deck, the helicopter attack squadron, our real fighting strength here, is going to launch, and will proceed about the business of cleaning up London. Well, one minute ten seconds now. All hands, BATTLESTATIONS!" 

A long minute later…   
Blasts like the very furnaces of hell echoed, as the squadron commanders started issuing orders. Viking watched out the cockpit of his Apache attack helicopter as the screaming F-22s blasted from the flight deck of the Enterprise. Older aircraft, F-14 Tomcats, and Harriers, were launching from the other Carriers, as he watched. Then.   
"Okay ladies, here we go. Pitchfork flight, go. Hellcat flight, go. Perdition flight, go!"   
Viking hit the rotors as soon as he heard CAG Armstrong saying Hellcat, and the Channel was alive with roaring. Not dragons though, this was the wonderful steel roar of literally thousands upon thousands of rotors fighting to lift their aircraft into the sky. 

Then the enormous cloud of flying steel dragons swarmed over the ruins of London, to spit fire back at fire-breathing beasts of myth. 

"Okay, hold it tight to my six! Good. Coming up on that big bastard chasing that French Osprey. Right. Hit 'em!" 

An Osprey, it's rotors in plane-mode, tore down a relatively narrow 'road' between ruined towers, as a young female chased it, trying to snap it out of the air physically. The Osprey's lead was holding steady, but just barely, when it jerked, as two 6mm. cannons started roaring at it's back and wings, shredding and tearing. 

"Oh that bastard's down! WOAH!!!!"   
Hitting the stick on a hard bank to port, Viking narrowly avoided feeding the flame from a huge female sitting in a side street. Then her flame-spitting head exploded in a firestorm, as two Euro-tigers, black Apache knock-offs, with twice the cannon and half the missiles, roared past the side street, cannons firing at some target out of sight. 

"I owe you a drink for that one!"   
"Don't mention it. Just get me the WOAA!!!!"   
A squeal issued in his headset, as another British voice screamed. "BLOODY BASTARD! GET THAT NEST!"   
Viking tore his Apache through an intersection, and onto the street the Euro-tigers were in, spotting a nesting female spitting flame into the sky. She was pointed the other way.   
"She's dog meat!"   
Hellfires poured from the Apache's rocket racks, until the Nest and the female sitting on it was reduced to charnel, and the Apache again took off, raising up towards the general melee in the skies over London.   
It was like another Blitz, Jackie thought, as he tracked onto a young one chasing after two other Apaches. Before he could fire, though, an F-22 roared in, launched in a Sidewinder, effectively blowing the dragon out of the sky with half it's torso and the left wing gone.   
"Those beasts thought they were the hottest thing in the sky. They were goddamned WRONG! YEAH!"   
"Maniac?"   
"Hahah! Nobody messed with the Maniac! WOOOOO! FOX-4!"   
The F-22 blew another dragon out the sky, but when he slowed to bank, a large, old female with amazing speed started chasing him. "Woah! Bogie on my six!"   
Then the dragon blew apart, an F-14 Tomcat blasting high over it's rapidly falling corpse. "Next time, Maniac, look before you bank."   
Then someone started playing some loud rock music on the command channel, set to fade when someone spoke. And there was much rejoicing on the comms.   
"I love this song."   
"What's not to love? It's loud. It's rock! Hahah!"   
Viking guided his Apache in towards another Osprey, this one was running from one dragon, while it's door gunners, with .50 caliber Longbarrel, each shot at dragons to it's dies. A quick down-and-up under the osprey, fire off a Sidewinder, and up to dodge the dragon's ballistic corpse. "That looks like a kill for Peter. Thank you, and goodnight."   
Rolling his eyeballs at his copilot, Jackie smiled, banking hard down to the right, coming in behind another female chasing after a Euro-tiger, fire spitting from it's cannon.   
The dragon went down, and Viking laughed. "I don't know why it wasn't this easy the first time."   
"Maybe because these are half-starved, very young or elderly dragons who don't number a half of what was over London the first time."   
"Oh… Well, we could've still taken twice this number with this many choppers and planes."   
"Maybe. But then, back then, we didn't get the chance to rally a large international task force. Now shut up, you limey Yank, and shoot something!" 

"Roger THAT. WOAH! Dirty mother! Someone help me out here, got one on my six!"   
Viking put the Apache into a hard dive, down for the streets of London, idly noting the excellent view he got of the ruined Tower, as he slammed and slid his helicopter through intersections, trying to loose an older female who was trying her best to torch him down. Until a Euro-Tiger, that is, slipped on HER tail, and spat fire back.   
"Whew. I owe you for that one."   
"Don't mention it."   
"Hey, take a look. I see a nesting female. Money shot. Bet you I can pop one of those lovely Willie Peter tanks they strapped on the belly right in."   
Viking laughed at Peter. "You sure it wouldn't be easier and more effective to pop her with the Napalm Screamer?"   
"of course it would. That's why they only gave us one Screamer, an' two Peters. Cause it's more fun to do it the hard way. Bring me in hot. As in on fire."   
Grumbling "that's what I'm afraid of." Viking nevertheless hit the acceleration, the rotor whining as the Apache screamed towards the Nesting female, who was concentrating on roasting a Euro-Tiger pestering her. Consequently, she only saw too late as the green Apache slid over her, the canister on the bottom falling, pinging once loudly off the ground, bouncing into the nest, between her wings, then agony.   
"Yeah, that's gonna be a nice mess to clean up!" 

"Okay people. That's enough. Fighters return to carriers, we're starting the land invasion now. Estimates put the dragons killed in the air battle at about eighty-five percent. Great job. Choppers, you're gonna stay in the air for a while longer, but it doesn't look like there's much left for the infantry and armor to mop up. Great work." 

"No more for the Maniac? You cold-hearted sadist.." the whine was plain, even over the comm, and Viking laughed……   


******** 

"Two hundred forty-six, two-hundred forty-seven, two hundred….. forty… eight, two hundred forty….. nine, two hundred.. FIFTY!" 

Jackie fell to the deck, nearly exhausted, as Jamie leaned down, taking his hand in hers. It was amazingly gentle. "Okay. Now we're even. How about that rematch… After a shower?"   
Jackie looked up at her, and shook his head. "I don't think so. I won't survive another seven-hundred pushups.."   
He was rewarded with a smile, and she grinned. "Good. You know who's still the master of oral sex, then… In that case…"   
She smiled, stripping her shirt off, and Jamie felt his mouth watering at her chest, devoid of a bra. He let his eyes travel over her smooth skin, and smiled, as she stepped out of her pants and panties, and started to undo his clothes. He obligingly got up, and laid backwards on her bunk.   
"Mmmmhmmm… You're going to enjoy this, hero…"   
Jackie laughed softly. "I'm no hero…"   
"Good… Then you'll enjoy this more, lover."   
She grinned at him, then grabbed his head in her hands, pulling his lips to hers……   
"God, she tastes like… strawberries…"   
Jackie gasped softly as she straddled his now-bare hips……… 

The End.   
(Sorry about the way I had to bring it to a kinda-cheesy fade-to-black ending, but they won't let NC-17 up anymore. Maybe if enough people ask, I'll provide a more adult version for those who contact me privatly. And, as another bonus, upon seeing how badly the Fanfiction.net uploader butchered the original .doc, I've this time done it in .html. So the paragraphs and such should appear as I want them to.)   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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